Fit

We usually don't ask for the gloves we wear.
We just pull on whatever mismatched
pairs we find, in drawers or baskets,
hoping only for the temporary, fleeting
warmth of knit and fleece,
the thrill of a ragged
outsmarting of whatever lies outside.
Sometimes, though, we find ourselves
by a wall of gloves so matched it's painful,
so brightly optimistic we hide our eyes,
so insistent on perfection, finally, that
we turn away,
in shame or delight,
fear or longing;
we cannot tell.
We only know
we want to go home.